


instead of stressed i lie here charmed

by asphaltworld



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blowjobs, California, M/M, Road Trip, aimless steve harrington, billy works in food service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-03-26 18:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19011676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphaltworld/pseuds/asphaltworld
Summary: Steve tries to make the thing with Jonathan and Nancy work. It doesn't.He thinks moving out to California will guarantee him a blank slate, but he finds a familiar face working at his new favorite burrito place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> billy doesn't really show up in this chapter but he will be in the next one. just fyi.

What Steve hates most about the city is that he can’t even complain about how everything is way more expensive than it was in Hawkins, or even Indianapolis. This place is cheap compared to LA, so everybody looks at him like he’s crazy and ungrateful whenever he says anything about the prices. So he can’t say shit. And whenever people find out he’s a transplant, they act like he should be grateful just to be standing on California soil. Like he loses any right to complain about his plumbing or traffic or like, the heat.

 

At least you’re not in Indiana, they say, and roll their eyes. Suck it up.

 

Steve wouldn’t even be here if anything else had worked out. California is his fucking backup plan.

 

\---

 

Back in Hawkins, he and Nancy tried doing the exes-to-friends thing. He really worked at it. She and Steve and Jonathan hung out all the time. They spent time with the kids and at the quarry and driving aimlessly around Indiana. It got so he could look Jonathan in the eye without immediately thinking murderous thoughts.

 

When it all went sour, he sat down and made a frantic list of the pros and cons of staying in Hawkins. The pros column was about five lines long and the cons took up the whole page. So Steve looked up flight costs, how to ship his clothes and electronics and furniture across the country. He found an apartment and the nearest community college and enrolled in a screenwriting class for the next semester. He really didn’t wanna have to come running back to Hawkins to take back his soul-deadening job managing Scoops Ahoy. His dad would give it to him, but he’d also give him endless shit about it.

 

Stever never exactly had plans to head west. Growing up, he thought a small town suited him just fine. His dad was a boring prick and not exactly present, but that would be true anywhere he went. Being a big fish in a small pond suited him. He likes going to restaurants and having them remember his name, even his order. Where the hell else can you get that?

 

\---

 

One weekend, Jonathan breaks out some fucking ecstasy, just because. While they’re all blissed out, stroking the grass and petting each other’s hair, Jonathan kisses Steve. Just out of the blue. His piercing little eyes got all up close to Steve’s face and then his mouth, softer than Steve would have expected anything on that slender little body to be. He’s almost like Nancy, all sharp edges and pointy features, and then his teeth are at Steve’s lip.

 

Nancy doesn’t even blink, and then all of a sudden she’s in Steve’s lap and Jonathan is curled up around him. Nobody comes, because x is a bitch that way, but in the morning they’re still cuddled in a heap like it all meant something. Steve wakes up first and tries to leave as quietly as possible. But Nancy wakes up and she makes them all breakfast. Soon Steve’s eating scrambled eggs through his rough as fuck comedown and they end up cuddling all day and watching stupid cartoons.

 

Later on, Steve wonders if they ever talked about it before, without him. If that’s what they wanted to happen.

 

Nancy read this book, right, on how to establish boundaries and norms in a non-monogamous relationship. Steve came along at the perfect moment for them to test out her new theories and shit about boundaries and roles in dating. And Steve’s changed a lot since high school, even though it wasn’t that long ago, so it’s decided that maybe Steve would be a good fit with their relationship dynamic. He knows everything they know about the government projects and the rot in the woods. That’s kind of a major bonding event. Dates first, though, before he actually joins the relationship.

 

After a month or so of movie nights that devolve into makeout sessions, trips to Indianapolis, swimming in the warm summer nights, Steve is officially one of their partners. Secondary partner, they call it.

 

Anyway, Jonathan really wants to try fucking dudes, and Steve’s a good transitional object. Safe. They try it both ways and Steve finds he likes bottoming way more than he ever fucking thought he would. Like, he never planned on trying that in his life but here he is and it’s great.

 

He feels kinda grateful to Jonathan for it. Sometimes Nancy brings out her strap, and nothing could have prepared him for that image back when they were still dating. It’s beautiful and kind of scary. She and Jonathan spitroast him, when they’re feeling generous. Steve likes giving it up, letting them make him a fucking mess. His mouth and knees get all sore and he can feel it the next day. Jonathan likes to finish in his mouth, and the taste is still kind of a novelty for Steve. His lips feel all tingly at the end of it, sensitive.

 

Nancy sets up the rules so they can only hang out with Steve when it’s all three of them. But one night Nancy’s busy holing herself up in her room doing schoolwork and shit. She wants to see if she can graduate in three years instead of four. Jonathan and Steve are both bored. So they hang out, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. They have a couple drinks, share a joint, Jonathan makes Steve listen to something weird and chaotic without any drums stabilizing the song.

 

But they end up making out, because what else are they supposed to do? And then Steve’s bent over the edge of Jonathan’s bed and his mom’s out visiting Hopper and Will is at Mike’s so they’re alone. Steve gets loud, moaning like it’s his job but Jonathan’s just kind of quiet.

 

“Faster, fuck, yeah just like that,” Steve says. Jonathan’s pace is punishing and Steve feels the edge of the bed cutting into his legs, maybe bruising. He makes sure Steve comes first, then he’s exhaling loud in Steve’s ear. Jonathan’s silent as he pulls out, ties off the condom. Steve flops onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Clearly Jonathan’s working up to something.

 

“We shouldn’t have done that.” His face is stone, his little features all pinched.

 

“Okay.” Steve says. He doesn’t feel bad about Nancy and her stupid rules that are all designed to make him feel worthless. “You sure you don’t want to go again? I mean, we’ve already done it once. May as well go whole hog.”

 

“Jesus, Steve,” Jonathan says, but he’s already crawling back over to Steve, putting his mouth on his neck.

 

Jonathan doesn’t let it go, though.

 

“Seriously, though, we have to tell Nancy.” Jonathan’s got a cigarette dangling from his mouth, looking both fucked out and guilty, and Steve wants to remember this.

 

“Sure. I’ll let you deal with that, though. Sounds like a job for a primary partner.”

 

Jonathan sighs. But he doesn’t get up or move away.

 

\---

 

Nancy calls a meeting.

 

“Steve. Those rules are in place for a reason. They’re what keeps this whole thing working. If I can’t trust you to follow them, how can I trust you enough to be a part of this relationship?”

 

“Really doesn’t feel like I’m ‘part of this relationship,’” Steve says, and maybe he’s raising his voice. But it just feels like Nancy’s twisting the knife.

 

Jonathan’s quiet, sitting in the corner. Steve briefly wonders why he’s not on trial the same way, but he probably conceded to Nancy immediately. That’s how he is.

 

“Look, can we just call it even? Now maybe you have an idea of how I felt that day back in high school.” And that was a mistake to bring up, because now both of them are looking at him, all wounded and also angry. They’ve never talked about that.

 

“Is that what this is about? Are you punishing me for something I did when I was young and stupid?”

 

Steve deflates. “No. I just. I like you both. I was lonely. I just want as much of both of you as possible.”

 

Nancy’s the master of meaningful eye contact, and she’s got all her force trained right on him.

 

“Okay. This isn’t a dealbreaker, I guess. I just need some time to process this shit.”

 

“Maybe we need new rules,” Jonathan pipes up. No one responds to him.

 

“Look, I do the best I can, I’m getting pretty good with the strap on, I think, but I don’t have a dick.” She sounds almost apologetic. “Like, is that enough for you? Are you interested in me, still?”

 

Steve’s cheeks are heating up, he almost never blushes anymore but this is too much. Like he’s such a cockwhore he’s never gonna settle for anything but a flesh and blood dick. It isn’t true, anyway.

 

“Do you not remember all the times we fucked, with my dick being the only one involved? Nancy, don’t freak out about this.”

 

She doesn’t look convinced.

 

“Look, do you want me to fucking prove it to you or something? Jesus. I’m a bisexual. I don’t know what you want.” He pauses, makes his voice go lower and looks at her from under his eyelashes. “I could go down on my knees, right here, in front of you, and show you.”

 

Nancy turns away, of course. She doesn’t wanna reward bad behavior.  

 

A couple weeks later, it’s technically their six month anniversary, but Steve’s not sure it counts, since they’re still all Processing or whatever. Jonathan sent him a text for it, short and sweet, and Steve wonders mildly if it’s breaking any rules.

 

The next time Steve sees him in person, it’s because he and Nancy are ending their relationship with Steve. It turns out Nancy couldn’t cope with that breach of trust, so she and Jonathan are going to focus on their relationship, make things right. So that whole thing was a fucking bust, and also somehow Steve’s longest relationship so far. Christ.

 

\---

 

Steve’s cute and rich and doesn’t need to work to feel like he has a purpose, so he belongs in California, right? New York is for people who love suffering. But he doesn’t want to go straight to LA. Too big of a pond, and too crowded. So he chooses a seaside town north of LA.

 

There are lots of yoga studios and juiceries and listings for studio space out where he’s moving. He could get into yoga. Probably lots of fit, suntanned bodies to look at there.

 

Nancy and Jonathan are still together of course. Fuck. At least they didn’t all move in together, like Jonathan suggested. Steve thinks maybe Jonathan was a little in love with him. Maybe that’s why he had to go. Ultimately, Nancy probably doesn’t like sharing. He hopes she had fun with that experiment.

 

Steve considers getting a weird haircut, like maybe an undercut or something. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do after a rough breakup? But he kind of likes his hair long, so maybe not.

 

Moving to California wasn’t supposed to be a celebratory event, because Steve feels more like he got run out of town than anything. But Dustin makes him have a going-away party anyway. Mike doesn’t show, and neither do Nancy or Jonathan, even though they’re technically on speaking terms again, but the rest of the kids do and it goes okay. Eleven tries to get Will drunk off of some garbage wine she finds in the kitchen.

 

“You know that’s for cooking, right?” Steve warns, when he catches her pouring it into a plastic cup. “Like, first of all I know that’s not cranberry juice, and second of all, it will taste gross as shit. Grosser than normal wine, if you can believe it. But go ahead, take a sip.”  

 

Will glowers and pours the drink out in the sink. “Happy now, _dad_?” he says.

Max lets him know her brother lives out there.

 

“Oh yeah, what is he doing there.” Steve doesn’t really want to know but he can’t stop himself from asking.

 

“Fuck if I know,” says Max. “We’re not exactly best friends.” Steve rolls his eyes.

 

“Why even tell me, then?” he asks.  Max just shrugs. Steve’s not letting her drop the subject so easily.

 

“So like, is that where you’re from? Why’d he move back alone?” Like he doesn’t already have a pretty good idea.

 

“He and his dad never got along too well,” Max says. And Steve knows that Neil isn’t the nicest man, even on his best behavior in front of strangers, so he doesn’t push it.

 

Steve gets drunk even if the kids don’t, and since his family is away he gets a tiny bit sloppy. The kids slink out one by one, and Steve doesn’t even know how they’re gonna get home. Not Dustin, though. Before he passes out, Dustin brings him a trash can in case he needs to puke. When he wakes up, it’s still next to the couch, mercifully empty. Dustin’s asleep on the big cushy armchair in the living room. Trash is everywhere. Steve can’t help but smile. Now that’s devotion. Where’s he supposed to find something like that in California? He’s doubting already. But he goes anyway. Dustin’s the last Hawkins person he talks to before he goes.

 

“I’m gonna miss you. By the time I see you next, you’ll be a real ladykiller.” Dustin looks skeptical.

 

“Uh, Steve? How long exactly will it be before you come visit?”

 

“I’ll be back for Christmas, I think,” Steve says. “Don’t die while I’m away.”

 

He would just ship his stuff and fly over, but Max tells him he’d be a fucking idiot to spend any time in Cali without a car. And his big vintage car can take it. There’s enough room for some suitcases and stuff so he doesn’t have to ship everything.

 

He’s moving somewhere faster-paced so he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to see reminders of every fucked up thing about Hawkins and now his two-for-one breakup with the only people his age he ever talks to anymore. It’s not like he doesn’t have money, so. Moving.

 

Steve has plenty of time to drive himself crazy on the way over. He tries podcasts but he loses the plot and gets to brooding. The look on Nancy’s face when she opened the door for him that last meeting. The look on Jonathan’s face as he tried to soften the blow. He’s a fucking marshmallow, way more than Nancy and her steely core. He looks like he’d be tough, maybe, or rude. But he isn’t.

 

He wonders if a second breakup should hurt less. Then he hates himself for even being in the position to have a second breakup with the same person. It’s his first with Jonathan, though. His first with a guy.

 

Steve already knew he was an add-on, that he had a lower place in the Relationship Hierarchy or whatever, but it was fucking surreal to lose two people at once. The last two peers in Hawkins he really had. And real life’s kicking in for everybody. There aren’t so many parties, and people are calming down. Chugging contests are starting to lead to beer bellies and like, that’s not a look Steve wants for himself. Tommy’s gut kind of enters the room before him.

 

By the time he hits the California state line he's still thinking about what he could have said to Jonathan and Nancy to change their minds. 


	2. Chapter 2

The first full day he spends in California mostly passes in a haze of unpacking and running to Target for vital things like toothpaste and a trash can. Toilet paper. Steve’s place has big windows that let in all kinds of _natural light_ and he can see into his neighbors’ tiny little backyards with one or two trees to create the illusion of nature. The windows face west and they turn the apartment into an oven over the course of the day, so he has to crank up the AC that makes his nose run and feels unnatural. When he steps out to smoke, just for something to do with himself, the transition from frigid indoors to dry heat has him shivering.

 

He unpacks his suitcases, fills the closet with clothes and stacks some books on the floor in his bedroom. Not much would fit in the car, so he’s waiting on any furniture more serious than his card table and a couple of folding chairs to ship to the new address.  

 

Right now, the place looks like shit.

 

Never mind the polished wood floor in the living room, the clean beige carpet in the bedroom. It all looks practically institutional because it’s so empty. His parents’ house was professionally decorated sometime in 2005 and hasn’t changed since. Sponge-painted dining room walls and a clean robin’s egg blue for his own room. The kitchen is practically a solid slab of wood, and the living room is the shabby chic paradise of heavy furniture painted white and then sanded down for a worn-in feel. Lots of plaid. So it was frozen in time, a little outdated, sure, but it sent a message. Here, Steve feels like he’s finally been put away and he’s gonna wake up to someone standing over him and supervising as he takes his little paper cup of pills. He can administer his own goddamn pills just fine.

 

When dinner time rolls around, he pulls up Yelp to look for something cheap and fast to eat. There’s a burrito place that’s not far, right by the water. It looks like a postcard in all the user uploaded photos and Steve is pretty tempted. He thinks about texting Max, asking for her stamp of approval on this as an authentic California burrito stand. But that might be weird.

 

A few reviews mention a surly blond cashier people seem kind of fixated on.

 

Josh A. says, “Blondie with all the muscles is an a-hole but my sis is hooked so i gotta eat there every week anyway. They have pretty good cabeza.” He gives it three stars.

 

Marissa L. says, “Some of the cashiers are rude af but easy on the eyes so its worth it. foods not bad either. Close to my favorite surf spot. If you know you know.” Four stars.

 

Steve closes the app. He doesn’t mind rude. Doesn’t mind blond.

 

When he gets there, he sees a big yellow sign, plus a menu with pictures illustrating the enchiladas and sopes and a million fucking kinds of burritos. He decides to play it safe and order something boring.

 

He’s lost in his thoughts, has no clue what the podcast playing in his ears is even about, by the time he gets to the counter. And then he’s face to face with some ghost from back home he hasn’t even thought about consciously in months. He yanks out his headphones.

 

“Oh my god.” Billy leans forward over the counter. “It’s the princess of Hawkins. Are you lost?”

 

“See, I’d ask if I was dreaming, but. That’s your line, right?”

 

Billy looks bored as hell. “Man, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Fucking figures. Billy probably said that same shit before all the fistfights he started. Fuck Steve for thinking he’s special, right?

 

“Whatever, then. Can I have uh. A California burrito?”

 

“I dunno, you tell me. Can you?” Billy smiles and it doesn’t make him look any nicer.

 

“Just give me one.”

 

“Sure thing. That’ll be five-fifty.”

 

Someone who isn’t Billy hands him his order, and he does a quick check. It’s the Cali burrito, plus two little foil-wrapped tacos with M-something scribbled across them.

 

“Hey. I didn’t order this.” He waves the little packages in Billy’s direction.

 

“Only because you don’t know to. Consider it a welcome present.” And then he meets Steve’s eye and fucking winks.

 

\---

 

Back at his place, Steve stares at the tacos. He demolished the burrito, even with the thought that it might have some of Billy’s spit in it. He’s hungry, and he doesn’t have any groceries, and the burrito was good. But the tacos are kind of freaking him out. He doesn’t even know what’s in them. He doesn't recognize it, can’t think of a taco filling that starts with an M. Billy’s always pushing boundaries, trying to fuck with him, and now he’s picking up right where they left off. Where does he get the energy?

 

He sticks them in the fridge.

 

The next morning, he wakes up and realizes there’s nothing in the house. Not  a damn box of cereal, nothing. He looks at them and weighs his options. Steve caves and reheats the tacos. They’re pretty good, all spiced and beefy. When it gets to the last bite, he savors it.

 

Then he drags his ass out to the supermarket to grab all kinds of frozen food, a bag of apples, enough cereal to last him a month. There’s a liter of vodka too.

 

It’s a couple more days before he makes it back out to Burrito Shack. He sits on the lawn chair in front of his TV, waits for his couch to arrive. Tries not to get drunk alone every night like a sad sack. He could go out, but all the bars are way cooler than he’s used to and he doesn’t really know where to start. His classes don’t start for another month. It’s the height of summer and Steve thought he would like it but really, the heat is debilitating and he wants to lie in his apartment all day. After too many days of hiding from the sun and other human beings, though, he figures he should leave the apartment.

 

He will, he promises himself. He’ll just catch a few more episodes of this true crime miniseries first. Starting the show was probably a mistake, he realizes. Steve doesn’t need any more reasons to stay indoors with the curtains closed and the door locked. He should be safer out here, away from all the shit that went down back home. He knows that. How is he supposed to meet anyone if all he can think about is how they might poison him or bash his skull in?

 

He’s already living on borrowed time.

 

\---

It’s dark out by the time he psychs himself up to head over to the Burrito Shack. He has mace on his keychain, even though he thinks it might be illegal here. The lights on the pier by the beach are all reds and oranges, glowing against the dark sky and reflected by the water.

 

There’s no line at Burrito Shack so from across the street he can see Billy’s hair lit up by the fluorescent lights. He’s sprawled out on the empty counter, cheek stuck to cold metal as he scrolls through his phone. Steve manages to walk up without Billy even noticing so he takes the opportunity to bang his fists down against the counter. It’s loud. Billy jumps, fumbles with his phone. His eyes go wide and his stupid eyelashes flutter, probably causing a hurricane on the other side of the world or whatever. When he sees it’s just Steve, he glares.

 

“Fucking lucky for you I’m at work,” he says. “You don’t do that to people. That’s how you get hit.”

 

“How may I help you,” Steve says brightly.

 

“Leave, and don’t come back,” Billy suggests.

 

Steve scoffs at that and tells Billy his order.

 

Billy gives him his change without a word, without any sarcastic come-ons. If things stay like this, he thinks he could become an actual regular here.

 

The same girl from before hands him his bag. She has a shitton of eyeliner on and a septum ring.

 

As he digs through the little pots of salsa and napkins in the bag to check his order, he catches Billy watching him.

 

“What?” Steve asks irritably.

 

“You don’t trust me?” he asks, gesturing to the bag.

 

“Last time you snuck some weird shit in-- there we go again. What is this?” Two more little tacos.

 

“Weird shit? If you keep talking about our food like that, I’m gonna have to start refusing service. Put your picture on the wall, all ‘do not serve’ and everything.” He smiles. “It’s called _machaca,_ Harrington. Hard to get any, way out in Indiana. Don’t tell me you didn’t like it?”

 

“I mean. It wasn’t bad.”

 

Billy’s smile turns smug. “That’s what I thought. Eat up, pretty boy. You’re too fucking skinny, and. Don’t want you to starve.”

 

Steve twists his mouth. “Right. Because you’re so invested in me being alive.” He has a few scars he could point out to Billy.

 

Billy _sighs_ and pushes his hand through his hair, like this is the hardest thing he’s had to deal with all day. “Jesus, Harrington. It’s just free food. We have leftovers every day. I don’t know what to tell you. Do you want me to stop?”

 

Steve rolls his eyes, mutters, “Fucking creepy,” as he leaves. Billy laughs at that, loud and full. The noise follows Steve as he walks away.

 

“Be careful walking home, pretty boy. Some might say you’re an easy target.” Like Billy’s helping him out by pointing out to everybody up and down the street that Steve looks easy to mug or kill or whatever.

 

Steve totally eats the tacos, though. And they’re really fucking good, he can admit to himself in the privacy of his own home. Why’s everyone always telling him he’s too skinny?

 

\---

 

Steve scowls at the Opening Up: A Guide to Welcoming New Partners flyer he sees for the third time that week, in a third location, stapled to a telephone pole. He almost tears it down but doesn’t let angst get the better of him. He was raised polite, if nothing else.

 

He still follows both Jonathan and Nancy on Instagram, which makes him feel like an idiot. It’s also a good reminder that their lives are the same boring shit they’ve always been, just without him now. If anything, it’s their loss. He has marinated meat and miles of ocean and an apartment to himself.

 

Steve opens up the app, lets highlights from other people’s lives drag him down further into his bad mood. When he gets tired of filtered photos of lakes and tree-filled skylines from people back home, he remembers a suspicion he had earlier. He types Billy’s name into the search bar and finds him as the first result. His account is public, of course.

 

Billy’s like the personification of Steve’s every wet dream about California. All tanned skin and lean muscle, blond hair highlighted by hours spent in the sun. Sea-blue eyes and tiny freckles high on his cheekbones. He’s in his fucking element, even when his hair is limp from fryer grease and the humidity and covered by an awful trucker hat. He’s put on a few pounds but it makes him more likeable, or something. It’s almost like he has a life outside of the gym. Billy looks a little less like he spends hours and hours each week making sure he can beat anybody’s ass at any time, but Steve thinks it’s safe to assume he still can.

 

Steve knows all this from seeing him in person, but it’s another thing to see it play out on his phone’s screen to the tune of like 9k followers.

 

Billy likes to post shots that really highlight his thighs, Steve discovers. He doesn’t mind it, not even when the feed shows him what has to be the tenth photo ostensibly showing off a new pair off running shorts but actually focused on tanned skin and curving muscle. Jesus. Against his wishes, Steve starts thinking about how it’d feel to get his hands and mouth on all that bare skin.

 

It’s mostly repetitive shots of his gym outfits and his car and the beach, with his face not the focus, so Steve’s surprised to scroll down to a picture of Billy grinning, a drink in his hand on the street in broad daylight. He’s wearing a pink tank top slashed down the sides, and there’s a rainbow sweatband on his wrist? Oh. The rest of the pictures in the post show him in front of rainbow-splashed floats, dancing in a crowd that’s mostly men.

 

He wonders what that means. In places that aren’t Hawkins, Steve knows pride is kind of an excuse to get fucked up. Like Cinco de Mayo or something. Doesn’t necessarily make him gay. But Billy never struck him as especially tolerant and accepting, or eager to prove himself as a good, progressive guy.

 

Steve’s holding his phone loose in his hands to avoid liking any pictures from six months ago. He’s not that surprised when it slips through his fingers, lands facedown on the couch. He’s not even that surprised to see that he’s accidentally followed Billy because he’s done that exact move before. He is disappointed, though.

 

He navigates to the explore page to distract himself with videos of gross junk food and guys working out, when he sees the notification. He has a follow request from Billy. It’s been about thirty seconds. Christ. He must be terminally plugged in.

 

He also gets a message request: _WHY do you keep your profile private fuckhead_

 

Steve doesn’t have an answer except paranoia, so he opens the message and leaves it on read, to put Billy in his place. He accepts the follow request, though.

 

\---

Steve spends a lot of his time at the beach while he waits for his class to start up and give him a routine to build his life around. So far he’s gone out to a few bars, but he still hasn’t brought anyone home. It’s kind of freaking him out how it’s been more than a year since he’s fucked anybody he didn’t already know, or who he practically grew up with.

 

It’s been long enough that he doesn’t actively miss Jonathan or Nancy. But whenever he jerks off, they end up somewhere in the highlight reel of sex he’s had, porn he’s watched, fantasies he’s had. It’s not ideal.

 

He warms himself in the sun to forget about the damp rot and slimy dark caves and all the other shit he had to deal with back home. He looks at hot people in skimpy swimsuits who are full of the kind of energy he doesn’t understand. He makes kind of a weird figure, a mostly-dressed guy lounging by himself. Most days he doesn’t get approached by anyone. It’s enough just to feel them being alive and comfortable and sure of themselves around him.

 

If he stays inside, he closes all his blinds, turns the TV on to something fucked up, and gets all morbid and shit. It’s not a great time.

 

Anyway, Billy also spends a lot of time on the beach, during his breaks and on his days off. Steve gets to see him slouch over away from the shack, take a smoke break sprawled out on the rocks and staring out to sea. He sits very still, when he’s alone and not trying to push people around.

 

This peaceful image is totally opposed to Billy’s never-ending stream of fast talking, in Spanish _and_ English, in the Burrito Shack. By the end of the day, his voice is always hoarse. His accent is terrible, even Steve can tell, but that never stops him. Steve can’t help but be impressed that he has the balls to talk to native Spanish speakers like, all the time. Even with his shit accent and bad grammar, he just goes for it.

 

Steve sees it in action. Billy wants to practice his Spanish, so he shoves everybody out of the way to get to the register when he thinks he’ll have a chance, like a dick. Never mind that half the employees actually speak the language on a daily basis and none of the customers have signed up to be his Spanish practice buddies. Billy’s gotta get his Language Immersion in.

 

“Can you fucking believe him?” Yesenia asks Steve, rolling her eyes. “Like, I’m right here and I could do it so easily. Takes him so damn long to translate everything in his head.” Billy ignores her but Steve catches her eye and nods.

 

“I mean, my ear for Spanish is not great. And you can probably tell. But he sure as hell doesn’t sound anything like you when he speaks it.”

 

“Right? Just let me take care of it,” she says irritably.

 

“Que quieres?” Billy tips his head back just a little, showing the angle of his jaw. Like he’s daring him to say something.

 

The guy at the register eyes him like he’s being made fun of. Then he goes ahead and orders, all in a rush, a pretty big order. Billy nods. “You got it, bud. El gusto es mio. Uh, cual es tu nombre? Para la orden.” He points a lazy finger.   

 

The man nods. “Matt.”

 

His coworkers always try to take over the orders for him, but he holds his ground, pushes them back, just to prove himself.

 

“Hey Billy, if you fuck this one up, you’re gonna be the one fixing it for him,” someone calls from the back. But the order turns out just fine. Steve watches the whole ordeal from one of the plastic tables set up around the Shack, gnawing slowly on a burrito that’s way too big for his current appetite.

\---

 

It’s not Steve’s fault his high school nemesis works at the closest and cheapest Mexican food place in the city. That makes it a lot harder to keep up a grudge. Billy is annoying and fucking rude and back in high school seemed just this side of crazy, but he keeps giving Steve free food. Steve knows what to expect from him, even if what he expects is just more garbage, patched over with sopes and tacos he would never try on his own.

 

Whenever his coworker Rafa hands him the AUX cord he pulls up some awful trap bullshit and immediately starts swaying to the beat, because, Steve guesses, he likes to feel like he’s driving a fucking racecar in a video game as he fries meat and wraps burritos and snarks at customers.

 

Steve just got out of class, a long and boring one about formatting scripts. He keeps catching this girl looking at him, a short brunette with a curvy body. He wanted to invite her out to get food, but she was gone by the time he packed all his shit up. Now he’s here at the burrito place having his ears assaulted indirectly by Billy fucking Hargrove, who he sees on a regular basis. What a world.

 

“Jesus, Billy, do you really enjoy this shit?” he snaps from the table he’s been loitering at.

 

Billy doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, Harrington, I really do. When _you_ get a job where you have to deal with assholes all day, then maybe you can inflict your favorite outdated pop hits and like, teenage singer-songwriters on the public.”  

 

Steve doesn’t respond. Clearly Billy’s been paying attention to his Instagram activity.

 

“You gonna order anytime soon, or should I just go ahead and lock up?”

 

“I’m ready. Gimme a, uh, actually _two_ sopes. With chicken.”

 

“You’re gonna need to get up to pay,” Billy reminds him.

 

Steve’s just resting his head on the gross, sticky tabletop. He sits there for two minutes in silence before Billy does anything about it.

 

“Fucking brat,” Billy spits. “For fuck’s sake. I wanna get home. Just pay for your shit.” He knows by now he doesn’t have to play nice customer service boy for Steve, not that he’s so great at it with anybody else.

 

At this point, Steve’s kind of interested in seeing what Billy will do if he ignores him. He tries to act like he doesn’t care about anything, but he’s always seeking out attention. He pushes all Steve’s buttons just right and he always gets it. Steve keeps up the silent treatment.

 

“I guess you’re cooking for your fucking self tonight,” he says with a calm finality. He turns the OPEN sign off, starts to pull down the corrugated metal that closes off the window area at night. And that finally gets a reaction.

 

“Fuck, c’mon, Billy.” Steve pulls a ten out of his wallet, waves it in the air. “Keep the change, okay?”

 

Billy hustles out from around the counter, snatches it out of his hands.

 

“Don’t get used to the special treatment,” he warns, pointing a finger right in Steve’s face in a truly annoying way. Steve gives in to a weird, childish impulse and leans forward and snaps his teeth at it.

 

Eventually, he gets his sopes and Billy closes the shack down. By the time he’s done, his apron flung over a shoulder and his cap tucked into the back of his pants, Steve is still just sitting there.

 

“What’s this,” Billy says. “Need help remembering where you live?”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Steve says.

 

Billy doesn’t move. “Look, you can’t sit here all night. It’s not smart to spend time out here when it’s dark and everything’s closed. Someone got stabbed here last month in a mugging.”

 

“Okay.” Steve stays put.

 

“What, do you want me to fucking _escort you home_?” Billy snaps. Steve considers the danger of letting someone like Billy know where he lives.

 

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says.

 

Billy stands with his hands on his hips, thinking. Steve just waits to see what he’ll do. Finally, after a minute or so of silent contemplation, which has to be a new Hargrove record, he shoves Steve’s shoulder.

 

“Let’s go.”

\---

 

The walk home is not long but parts of it are dark as shit because there aren’t enough street lights in this part of town, for some reason. It goes faster with Billy beside him, chattering the whole time. He shares stories about the weird people he met at the gym, bitches about his schedule for the following week, dishes on his coworkers’ relationship drama.

 

Steve likes looking at the trash lining the streets. He sees a baby shoe, a dirty Peppa Pig toy on the ground, pants tossed aside like someone just stepped out of them. He counts out the tiny little plastic bottles of booze he says, calling out each brand to Billy. He has an opinion on each of them. Billy thinks Grand Marnier is trash but Kahlua is okay in his book, which seems kind of hypocritical.

 

The sidewalk and street are inexplicably wet, and even though this is Steve’s walk home, Billy seems familiar with it and jumps right over the deep puddle Steve misses and soaks his sneakers. The water seeps into his socks.

 

“That happen every time you walk home? No wonder you’re always in such a bad mood.”

 

“You distracted me,” Steve says sullenly. He’s not the one in a bad mood.

 

When they get to the apartment building, Billy whistles.

 

“Everyone’s always talking shit about this place,” he informs Steve. “It’s like, ruining the view for everybody else.”

 

“It’s only three stories high,” Steve argues. “How could it be ruining the view?”

 

“The building is a fucking eyesore. Everything else around here actually has a soul, Harrington. Your place looks like it was ordered from a catalog.”

 

“Okay. Good night to you too,” he says.

 

Billy grabs his shoulder, squeezes hard, pushes him toward the door. Steve already knows where his own front door is so he doesn’t see the point. But he feels Billy’s phantom touch all night, when he changes into his lying-around-the-apartment clothes. When he sinks into bed. When he gets himself off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna be longer than i thought...  
> thank you for the comments!! lets me know i'm not just shouting into the void.  
> sorry about billy's spanish. 
> 
> i initially found this pairing by accident when i was looking thru ao3 tags for Something Else and i was like, okay i'll bite, and turns out i really love the harringrove dynamic. and now here i am.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve goes to coffee shops all the time, and his screenwriting class twice a week. It seems like a good way to meet people. He didn’t bother getting a BA so this could come in handy if he ever wants one. Transfer credits or whatever. He’s heard the UC system is pretty good but maybe he shouldn’t set his hopes that high. His dad would be happy, he thinks before he can stop himself.

 

Maybe he should work harder on staying in the good graces of his meal ticket.

 

There are people like him in the class, who are just taking it to fill the time and maybe get a hobby. People whose parents are funding their lifestyle while they “figure things out.” He’s found his people, even at a school like this. They namedrop their vacation destinations and investment portfolios in class, somehow manage to get them in even though this is supposed to be a _creative_ class and they could talk about literally anything. They dress in thin floaty clothes and they discuss their current diet plans.

 

They don’t dress like the guys at the country club in Indiana did, all Vineyard Vines and Sperry’s. There’s a lot of chambray and brightly printed button-ups and _jewelry_ , even. Everybody’s always trying to stand out. But not Steve. Steve is still wearing muted colors and canvas sneakers and even polo shirts. The soft, knit kind, not the ones that come as part of a Best Buy uniform. He wears Lacoste sometimes, even though he knows it’s douchey.

 

Even though Steve’s kind of a different breed, they can smell the money on him. One of them asks for his number, supposedly so they can share homework or ask each other questions. She’s short and has a cute, round face. Before the end of the week, she’s invited him to two different events at bars downtown. He doesn’t want to go out on weeknights, so he turns her down both times. By the time the actual weekend rolls around, he’s out of excuses. So that’s how he ends up on an extremely mediocre date with a girl named Katie, where they drink glasses full of artisanal whatever and munch tater tots with truffle oil. He tries to beg off after two drinks, but she pouts and Steve’s _trying_ to be a decent guy.

 

There’s a group outing later on, she tells him, with an Andrew and a Micah and a Kaylyn and so on. They take him out to the cool nightclubs, where has to pay $15 for a drink.

 

The bartenders are all young and hot and wearing tight little outfits, both the men and the women. Steve hasn’t actually spent that much time out in the world during his time in California, and this is kind of his first chance to appreciate the locals in a dating environment.

 

One of the girls who isn’t Katie lures him out onto the dancefloor. They were introduced too fast for him to really get any of their names. She pulls a little white packet out of her bra, raises her eyebrows. He glances over at Katie, checks if she’s glaring daggers and he’s about to make an enemy in this new town, but she doesn’t even seem to mind. Steve smiles his prom-king smile and nods.

 

The rest of the night passes in a pleasant blur, until it’s time to go home and Steve’s calling a ride.

 

When he gets home, the same dark apartment and the loneliness seems even more stifling after all the color and life there is outside. He doesn’t really know what to do about that. There’s no good way to make your apartment capture the vibe of a nightclub. He’s seen people try. It ends in tears and interventions.

 

\---

 

When the sun hits Billy just right, Steve can see a thin scar right below his lower lip, in the dip of his chin. He loses his train of thought. Billy’s face has been more distracting lately.

 

“Your usual, Harrington?”

 

Steve blinks. Billy’s shifted and he can’t see the scar anymore.

 

“Just gimme an horchata.” Billy had mocked him for weeks about his pronunciation, like he had any right to make fun of anybody else’s accent in Spanish. But now Steve says it like him. Orr-chot-thaw.

 

“That’s it?” Billy raises one thick eyebrow. “You don’t need to diet, pretty boy. You’re basically a rail already.”

 

“Ate already,” Steve grunts out.

 

“Did you have a rough night or something?” Billy prods. He’s always prodding.

 

“No.” He did, but not exactly in the Keg King way Billy’s thinking. The morning after coke always sucks, but it’s worse when he’s alone and can’t tear his eyes away from the murder reenactments he always keeps playing on his TV. He didn’t get much sleep, despite all the booze. He can’t really call the people back home and tell them about his nightmares, or all the ways he freaks himself out about living in a city with more than 10,000 people.

 

A year ago, he would have called Nancy about something like this. He was never able to talk to Tommy or anybody else like that. For a long time, he thought guys just didn’t talk about emotional stuff, except with their girlfriends. Jonathan did, though. He hugged his brother and comforted people and sometimes he even cried in front of other people.

 

Billy shrugs and makes the drink for him. He lets it go, which has to be a first. Steve must look fucking terrible.

 

Billy’s shift ends right as Steve finishes sucking down his drink, or else he’s skipping out early.

 

“King Steve.” he announces himself as he comes up behind him. “Why don’t you let me introduce you to my state? It’ll be like old times, except now you’re the new kid in town.”

 

Steve’s not sure what to make of all this, so he focuses on the dregs of horchata and the ice cubes.

 

He continues, “Look, this place down the street has $3 drinks during happy hour. I’ll buy the first round.” Steve senses Billy loves being in a position of authority, showing the hick around his beautiful and superior home state.

 

Jesus Christ, does he look that pathetic? On the other hand, Steve’s pretty sure there’s no amount of patheticness that would make Billy empathetic. He must have some angle.

 

“Uh, what for?” he says warily.

 

“What for? Out of the kindness of my goddamn heart. If you want to turn down the free drink, go ahead. No skin off my ass.” Billy shrugs, looks down at his black Converse. Even the rubber tips are black. Steve has nothing to lose, really.

 

He thinks of that song Jonathan always made them listen to, the one that went, _I want to see people and I want to see life._ Prime night-drive soundtrack material.

 

“Sure. Show me around, big shot.”

\---

 

Billy’s not a sloppy drunk like he used to be at all the Hawkins parties. He does slosh his drink over the rim a little bit when he uses his drinking hand to emphasize some point, but his eyes aren’t totally glazed and red and empty-looking. So it’s good.

 

The bar is a mostly-quiet little dive, and Billy was right about the prices. Three dollars, and even though his whiskey sour tastes kind of grainy from the sour mix sitting unstirred at the bottom of his drink, Steve’s kind of charmed by the place.  

 

There’s even an electronic jukebox, and Steve hopes Billy isn’t in the mood to touch it, because it’s playing something calm, with a slow beat and soft vocals.

 

When they sit down at a table with their drinks, Billy sheds his denim jacket. Underneath he has on a t-shirt from some local business stretched tight over his chest. He must buy them a size too small.

 

He lets Billy fill the silence, talking like he usually does about shit he hates and hikes he wants to take and so on. It’s fine. He likes having someone near him to occupy his thoughts, keep them from circling the same obsessive paths they usually take if he’s not careful.

 

“So why’d you move out here?” Billy’s draining his glass, licking at the ice and the dregs of his weird gin drink.

 

“What do you think, man? You were always saying it yourself, there’s nothing to do there. No one to meet.” Steve shifts away from Billy, from where he’d been leaned over next to him, almost touching his arm.

 

“You grew up with all those hicks, though. They’re _your_ hicks. Like, did something happen?”

 

“Will you drop it if I say I don’t want to talk about it?” Steve already knows he won’t.

 

“Harrington, I’m feeling real bored. Please humor me. I’ll get the next round,” he offers, leaning in.

 

“Bad breakup.” He doesn’t offer any more info.

 

“Again? Shit, I don’t get the point of on-again off-again. After the first time it ends, you always know it’s gonna happen again,” Billy says as he’s sliding off his seat to get them more drinks. A man of his word.

 

Where does this insight come from? Steve’s never seen him with the same girl more than once, but. Maybe it’s different out here. He doesn’t think so, never sees any hint of a woman’s presence in any of his posts or the stories he tells, but he’s not going to wrap himself up in Billy’s personal life.

 

When Billy comes back, he has _two_ of the weird gin drinks in his hands.

 

“God, what is that?”

 

“Lavender syrup in gin and tonic.” He slides one over, says, “You’re better off without her, I think.”

 

“Oh, you think? Well, thank christ, man. You're the expert.” He tries to keep it light but it comes out bitter. Steve knows exactly what Billy thinks of Nancy. He told him all the time, when they were in school. Billy probably has no idea about Jonathan.

 

“It seemed like she kind of fucked you up.” Billy drinks deeply from his glass. As if he’s the one who needs it. “But I guess you’re gonna tell me it’s not my business, huh? Like, I’m not here to be your shoulder to cry on.” He looks around. “Hey, I’m going to put something better on. The music tonight fucking sucks.”

 

Steve’s trying not to spiral, focusing on the overwhelming floral taste of his drink and the sticky, smooth table under his hands. The bar’s not packed but there’s no A/C on tonight so it’s warm, too hot for him. People are talking and laughing everywhere around him. Someone here has a voice like fucking sandpaper, rough and grating above all the other noises. The music is a pleasant synthy babble, until Billy gets his hands on the jukebox thing. A familiar guitar riff filters in, something very 70s-sounding.

 

“I kind of liked that other shit,” he admits when Billy comes back over, looking pleased with himself, bobbing his head.

 

“This is the kind of music that should be playing in a place like this,” Billy says. He sings along with the next line that comes on, like he knows it by heart. “ _You’ve been telling me you’re a genius since you were seventeen,_ ” he says, deadpanning it. “ _In all the time I’ve known you I still don’t know what you mean_.” Slaps his palm on the table. “Goddamn. This reminds me of going to the bowling alley when I was a kid.”

 

“The. The _bowling alley_? Are you actually fifty years old?” Steve wants to say more, he’s just getting started over this fucking weird admission. That’s a lot of material to work with.

 

But Billy meets his eyes with that half-lidded look he gets when Steve’s bugging him. It’s kind of reptilian. “The bowling alley always has a bar, so. It’s a great place to take your kid to hang out.”

 

And _that’s_ more information than Steve wanted. He feels guilty and uncomfortable, probably just the way Billy wanted him to. _Hey, in case you didn’t already_ know, _my dad’s a drunk._

 

The song ends and a funky rhythm complete with a fucking saxophone comes on next.

 

“This song is intense,” Steve notes, desperate to get them on another subject.

 

Billy giggles. “I filled the queue with Steely fucking Dan. Spent five bucks on all their greatest hits.”

 

Steve snaps his fingers. “ _That’s_ what sounded so familiar. Yeah, man, the oldies station in Hawkins always used to play this shit. The department store was always tuned to that station. God.”

 

Billy reaches over to grab his arm. He’s not so coordinated, and his hand slips lower to rest on Steve’s waist. He’s not sure if Billy’s burning up with heat or if he’s just ultra-aware of his hand there. But the feeling and the light pressure are all he can focus on, until eventually they shift around and break the pose.

 

“You wanna go wander around town with me, like a bum?”

 

Steve actually laughs first. Then he says yes.

 

\---

 

Billy even takes him out to the pier afterwards, where they can sit at the very end, dangle their feet over the fence, stare up at the stars.

 

“When I lived in LA proper you couldn’t see the stars for shit,” he says. “That was the saving grace of moving out to Hicksville. I could drive out to some field and then lie on the roof of my car and see the goddamn Milky Way. That blew my mind.” It’s the first good thing he’s _ever_ heard Billy say about Hawkins.

 

“You shouldn’t have gone out there like that, by yourself,” Steve says automatically.

 

“Who says I was alone?” Billy laughs. “Anyway. S’what I’m always trying to tell you about this place. I don’t know what you thought there was in Hawkins, but have you checked out the crime rate in this city?”

 

“That place is more fucked up than you give us credit for.”

 

“Yeah? How so?”

 

Steve’s just drunk enough for it to feel like a good idea when he says, “Well, for one. My breakup? It was with Nancy _and_ Jonathan.”

 

Billy blinks. Steve can pretty much hear him processing it. His eyes are suddenly focused sharply on Steve. He crows, “Didn’t think you had it in you! Man. Screwing Byers, that _is_ fucked up. Or.” And then he gets this grin on his face that’s pure evil. “Or was it the other way around? You gonna tell me? Or should I just guess?”

 

“ _Not_ gonna tell you.”

 

“That definitely means it was the other way around. Relax. It’s not like, a reflection on your masculinity or anything. I know you were always big on that when we were in school, but. Your dad’s not here, waiting to kick your ass for being a fairy.”

 

“He probably wouldn’t do that.” Steve pauses. “From what I remember, uh, you were the one who was big on that in high school.”

 

Billy turns his head to meet his eyes, grimacing. “Yeah, I guess I was.”

 

 

"How about now?"

 

"Harrington, I drink  _gin_ now. I may as well be Edith Wharton." 

 

"Your arms say otherwise." Steve thinks, tries to focus. "I bet your abs do too." 

 

Billy looks torn between being annoyed and pleased. 

 

"I guess they do." His fingers are at the hem of his shirt. Steve says a silent prayer that Billy's not as reformed as he claims to be. Sure enough, he's lifting the hem and tensing his stomach so the muscles stand out more. "Like, go ahead. See how fucking serious I am about the gym. People always wonder."

 

 _Nobody_ fucking doubts Billy Hargrove's dedication to the gym, but Steve's not going to tell him that. He touches a hand to Billy's side, lightly. But Billy reaches out to take his hand and presses it down firmly. Steve's feeling a little confused about the situation but he focuses on remembering the view and the feel. 

 

 "Yeah, okay. See? You're still a fucking, uh. I don't know. Batman. But you already knew that, you bastard."

 

Billy grins dopily. "I just wanted to make sure  _you_ knew it. Wanted to hear you say it." 

\---

 

Steve’s landlord is totally absent and doesn’t respond to texts for like, a week minimum. He makes his daughter do house calls and she very obviously does not give a shit about tenant satisfaction. The shared yard is full of dried up, spiny palm fronds. None of the other tenants give a shit and when Steve tried gathering them up he sliced the shit out of his hand. He gave up and made a poster offering some cash for someone to come clean it up instead. He makes it double minimum wage, per hour. He just really wants it fucking cleaned up.

 

Steve pins the thing to the bulletin board on the wall at Burrito Shack.

 

Hopefully someone sees it and calls him. He bets plenty of broke bastards eat here.

 

“You’ll let me have this one if you know what’s good for you,” Steve catches Billy saying to the 17-year-old who works the register on weekends, not soon after. Steve’s in the unofficial smoking section, next to the open kitchen door, which is the only reason he hears it.

Jesus.

 

But Billy’s gotta be strong, right? If looks are anything to go by. And kind of eager to please, which seems new. So Steve’s gonna let him have it.

 

He starts in on a second cigarette, even though he’s not usually too big of a smoker. He’s been going through a few packs a week lately, when one used to last him almost all week. It must be the stress of moving.

 

Billy sidles up to him, heat radiating off him with the smell of sweat and smoke. Too close.

 

“So you need a job done?” Billy asks.

 

“Yeah,” says Steve. “My landlord’s a piece of shit so like, whatever I guess. I need this shit done so I can go outside without stabbing myself.”

 

“I could do it,” Billy says. “I gotta pay off this semester at Oxnard. Every dollar counts, right?”

 

“Oh. I didn’t know you were going there, too,” Steve says. He can’t help himself, even though he knows better. Should’ve kept his mouth shut.

 

“Auto tech. I’m learning how to fix up fancy cars like yours.” Billy smiles and doesn’t make any cracks about Steve going to college. “BMWs cost a lot to fix, did you know that? One of the most expensive types of repair. I’m gonna make bank off prissy bitches like you who don’t know how to open the hood of a car.”

 

Steve is well aware.

 

“So,” Steve deflects. “What’s your schedule like?”

 

Billy snorts. “You mean, you don’t have it memorized already?” He fishes his phone out and sends a text. “There. Now you have my number, and we can figure it out later. I have to get back to work.”

 

It turns out Billy’s free the very next day. Steve sends him the address and he’s over within an hour. He shows up carrying a bag of tools.

 

Steve lets him in and guides him to the backyard. He’s set up a chair for himself back there, because honestly, he wants to watch Billy work. He’s not going to think about it too much. It’s the company he wants, or the sun, or something. He’s spent so much time inside with the curtains closed he hasn’t been getting much sun. It might be a vitamin D deficiency that has him out here sprawled in a faded lawn chair in shorts and a tank top.

 

“When I first moved back out here, I did some landscaping jobs,” Billy says. He’s carrying a bunch of branches and palm fronds. “The gloves come in handy, still.” He stripped his shirt off about ten minutes in, which seemed kind of dumb because of all the sharp branches and shit he has to move, but. Steve’s not going to tell him that.

 

“What’d you do after that?”

 

“I was a courier.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“A delivery boy. Just not for pizzas.”

Steve stays in the backyard and talks to Billy while he works. Watches him, too. If it bugs Billy, he doesn’t show it. Steve doesn’t like to hang out there by himself, but he doesn’t have people over too often.

 

After an hour or so Steve brings him a bottle of water, a bag of chips. Billy takes off his gloves and wolfs them down. Steve’s kind of surprised.

 

“I thought your body was a temple,” he can’t stop himself from blurting. Billy glares and continues to shovel them into his face.

 

After three hours, Billy has the plant debris broken down and bagged, ready for trash day. Steve counts out the cash, hands it over.

 

“You want a drink?” he asks. Because somehow, after three hours of watching Billy sweat and make jokes at Steve’s expense, he wants more of it.

 

“I have a drink,” says Billy, dangling his water bottle from his fingertips. It’s basically empty.

 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Didn’t know you hate free booze. That’s kind of surprising, man.”

 

“Okay, okay. You have my attention. Let’s go see how you live, bachelor boy.”

 

Billy wants to use his shower, and that's a whole scene Steve can't think too hard about, so he agrees instantly. Billy comes out with his hair still wet and dripping down his fresh shirt. His shirt, which says "HARTMAN PLUMBING: Big enough to service you, small enough to know you." 

 

"Oh my  _fucking_ god." Billy's grinning. "Is that. That can't be a real company?"

 

"It definitely is." He collapses into a lawn chair and it squeaks dangerously. 

 

"Hey, watch the furniture."

 

"Is that what you call this? Shit, did your parents cut you off or something?"

 

"I'm  _waiting._ For my furniture to ship." 

 

"Cool. Hey, I could help you with that too. Moving it in. For money, I mean." Billy settles in and folds his arms behind his head. "So what are we watching?"

\---

 

Once Billy’s been over to his house, it feels like he’s everywhere. At the 7/11, buying shitty booze.  The city’s not as small as he’s used to, but it’s not huge either. Steve’s not sure how weird it is that they keep running into each other.

 

It makes it easier for Billy to invite himself over, though, so all of a sudden they’re seeing a lot of each other. Not just hanging out at the apartment with shitty mixed drinks from the dregs of Steve’s fridge but getting dinner and going to the beach and shit like that. It’s like a switch was flipped and suddenly Billy’s Part of Steve’s Life. He even blows off people from class to hang out with Billy.

 

What surprises him more is that Billy’s always the one to initiate things. Usually, he seems to just let people come to him. They always do, so he’s probably never had to think about it. But he’s the one who goes up to Steve at the grocery store, who finds him at the bar even when they don’t head over together. If Steve’s there, Billy find him, and not the other way around.

 

Billy’s a little obsessive, everybody fucking knows that. You can tell when it’s his turn to play music because he puts the same song on two or even three times in a row. He puts in more than his share of time at the gym, has favorite machines and shit, drinks from his big-ass thermos of mysterious protein bullshit at all hours as he works the register. Steve never really sees him eat anything from the stand he works at.

 

Eventually he asks about it, like, what do you know that I don’t?

 

Billy just scoffs. “Not everybody’s built like a fucking beanpole,” he says. “I gotta watch all this, okay.” He gestures to his body, unbuttoned shirt and mid-thigh shorts. Steve lets his eyes wander over the dip at the center of his chest, sparse hairs trailing down his belly, his legs.

 

“Fuck, okay,” Steve says. “Don’t wanna mess with perfection.”

 

Billy licks his lips. “Exactly.”

 

\---

Steve goes out to meet Billy where he’s sitting by the beach, smoking. He comes up from behind, silent feet on the sand. When he says hi, Billy whips around. Steve can see the whites of his eyes as he flicks away the cigarette, like an old guilty reflex from when he was just a kid and too young to have it.

 

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” he grunts. “Didn’t I tell you? Someone’s gonna punch you out someday.”

 

“You already have,” Steve reminds him. Billy doesn’t look proud like Steve thought he would. Goddamn it.

 

Steve forges ahead.

 

“So, listen. I’m heading up to Sacramento for this auto event, and. I thought you might want to come with. Network, or something.” He’s expecting some wisecrack about Steve not knowing what cars even are.

 

Billy looks up at Steve, who towers over him when he's leaned against the rocks like this.

“Damn. Are you offering me the chance to ride with royalty?”

 

“I guess so, man. I mean, you’d have to drive some of the time. That’s kind of the point of this arrangement. If you do want to come.”

 

Billy tilts his head. “Hm. How about I go one better? How about you let me drive the entire time, so I don’t have to worry about you killing us both? I mean, that would be _such_ a waste.”

 

“You want me to let you take over my car?” Steve asks, on the edge of laughter. Billy nods.

 

“I didn’t know you were such a control freak,” Steve says. Purses his lips.

 

“Is that a dealbreaker for you?”

 

“Uh, no. I guess not. Shit, I hate driving out here anyway. You guys are all way too intense for me.”

 

“You guys?” Billy asks, tilting his head.

 

“ _Californians._ ”

 

"Hey so, I know I agreed to this already, but when is it, again?" Billy says hurriedly. Steve has never seen him be so uncool, the opposite of suave and aloof. It's pretty fucking funny.

\---

 

It’s another cashier who tells him. “Hey, you met Billy’s little wifey yet?”

 

“Wife?” That can’t be right. “Uh, no. I haven’t met her? Didn’t know about that.” Nervous energy starts to gather in his gut.

 

“I just ask, cause. You guys seem like friends.”

 

Steve laughs. “Not really. Known each other a long time, though.” It’s not strictly true, but he’s known Billy for longer than anybody else in this godforsaken state.

 

The dude nods. “Anyway, he’s on about this wife but I’ve never fuckin’ met her and he’s been working here almost a year. I thought _you_ might know.”

 

“Weird.”  

 

“That’s what I said!” Rafa says. “Like, is there something wrong with her? Is she crazy?”

 

“If she married him? Probably.”

 

Rafa cracks up even though the joke was dumb as shit.

 

\---

 

So Billy’s like, really married? Steve finds that hard to believe. He hasn’t been acting very married. Maybe he’s reading him wrong. Maybe Billy’s hardwired to ooze appeal at everyone who comes within ten feet of him.

 

It’s not like Steve has that much experience with guys. He just kind of fell into the thing with Jonathan. And Billy’s a very different kind of guy than Jonathan. So like, whatever. He’ll charm somebody from screenwriting or somebody at the coffee shop or maybe one of those weird little bars Billy showed him, where he bought him drinks and leaned in too close and balanced himself on Steve’s knee a few times. People _like_ Steve, usually. It won’t be hard.

 

It’s just, they’re about to go on this fucking trip together. It’ll be hours of them packed into Steve’s car. Eating meals together. Sharing hotel rooms. Christ. Steve really doesn’t want to text Billy and ask if he’s married. That would look weird as fuck.

 

Steve kind of thought he was getting somewhere with this, before, but maybe not. This trip is going to be a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i was writing notes to myself for this in google docs and i wrote "billy wallows" and it suggested i correct it to "billy swallows." lol. not just yet.  
> -the gross slogan on billy's shirt is a real slogan i saw on the side of a truck recently.   
> -at the discount movie theater i saw a blue car with a dented blue and yellow license plate? and the license plate was "IM TRBL." extremely hargrove-esque. upsettingly so. 
> 
> ANYWAY hi hello i would love to get this done before s3 airs. but i'm not sure what my workload for the next two weeks will be like so we'll fuckin see. thank you for the comments! it's seriously cool to see what people think. 
> 
> MUSIC:  
> the song that jonathan likes is "there is a light that never goes out" by the smiths of fucking course. IMO modern au jonathan listens to all the same music canon jonathan does. the songs billy plays are "reelin in the years," "peg," and "do it again," all by steely dan. i LOVE reelin in the years.


	4. Chapter 4

Before they make it out into the miles of rural central coast, Steve gets a glimpse of Billy’s road rage. He honks constantly and aggressively, cuts people off, speeds as much as he thinks he can get away with. 

 

“Is this like, normal driving for California?”

 

“Fuck no. Everyone here is one hundred years old and senile,” he says through gritted teeth. Steve meant _his_ driving, but okay. “Come _on,_ motherfucker. Drive!” 

 

But soon they're out in the country, with no drivers for Billy to scream at. Instead, there are farms _everywhere_ and billboard signs complaining about government taxes on water and how it’s forcing farmers to jack up the cost of produce. 

 

“Hey Billy. Let’s stop at one of those,” Steve says, craning his neck to look at the fruit stand they just shot past. Billy’s going to get a goddamn ticket for sure. 

 

“One of those fruit places? I thought you wanted to get to Sacramento.”

 

“So we can’t do both? Fuck, it was obviously a mistake to let you drive,” Steve bitches. “I can’t have any fruit, you make me piss in a bottle, you’re going to get a ticket, like. You of all people should know how these small-town cops sit on the side of the road waiting for somebody like you to speed through. How many tickets did you get in high school?” 

 

“Yeah, still not stopping. Maybe if we’d left on time, I would be more into it. But no.”

 

Billy asked Steve to pick him up by the Shack. _For your convenience_ , he’d said. Steve had still been about twenty minutes late. Not late enough, Steve thinks, to justify how fucking annoyed Billy had been. 

 

\---

 

There’s a series of billboards advertising the Madonna Inn, all tacky and pink. Steve stares at the latest one as it passes by.

 

“Hey, you ever been?” Billy asks. 

 

“No, I just moved out here,” Steve reminds him.

 

“It’s real sweet. Kitschy as hell. They have a big, pink dining room.” Billy seems very fucking into this.

 

“Cool,” Steve says, making sure he sounds like he absolutely does not think that gaudy shit is cool at all. He stares out into the black open space around the car. It’s all neatly planted crops out there, probably. Wheat or maybe more grapes. 

 

They passed by rows of grapes earlier. Billy stopped the car and hopped out to reach over the fence and grab a bunch of them, ignoring Steve’s yells at him to get back to the damn car. Some farmer down the road noticed, and started shouting at him. When Billy reached the car door, panting, he tossed the grapes in first for Steve to catch. Which, dramatic. When they were safely out of shotgun range, he popped one of the grapes in his mouth, before declaring it to be sour as shit. Turns out they were meant for wine.

 

Billy checks his watch, conspicuously. 

 

“Wow, look at that.” He looks over at Steve. “Guess what time it is.”

 

“I really don’t care.”

 

“It’s almost 11, Harrington. We should get off the road. Who knows what kind of drunks are gonna come blasting through here this time of night.” 

 

Steve tears his eyes away from the monotonous stretch of road. “Billy, we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.” 

 

“Exactly. These motherfuckers have nothing to do _but_ drink. Don’t you remember living in Hawkins?” Billy looks away from the road, stares at Steve. 

 

“I guess so,” Steve admits. He doesn’t want to. 

 

“Come _on,_ Harrington. I need to sleep, you need to sleep. Let’s stop somewhere.”

 

“I’m not even tired.” 

 

“Well, I’m driving, and I say I need to sleep.” 

 

Steve takes a chance. “You could let me drive, you know.” 

 

Billy glares at the road. “I would laugh if I didn’t think you were serious.” 

 

So no go on that, then.

 

“So you need to sleep right on time for this inn place you have such a boner for?” 

 

“Hey, that’s why it’s so popular. It’s in the perfect location, right when you start to get tired as you’re driving up from LA.” Billy doesn’t even sound pissed. They _aren’t_ driving up from LA, but Steve lets it go.

 

“And are you expecting me to foot the bill for this thing? Man, this one’s on you, since you’re the one who wants it.” Steve’s being a brat, he knows it, but he will die if he has to spend more than one night in a hotel room listening to Billy sleep while he stares at his phone or the fucking ceiling or the stains on the carpet. He hasn’t been sleeping well and sharing a room is probably just gonna make it worse.

 

Billy looks unfazed. “That’s fine, since out of the two of us, I’m the adult with a job. I’m gonna get us the cheapest room they have available, though. Just so you know.” _Us?_ Steve thinks, and right on cue, Billy says, “I’m still not made of money.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

When they pull up to the place, it looks all magical and storybook and it’s freaking Steve the fuck out.

 

“This is crazy, Billy, just let me drive us to the next town til we get to a Motel 6 or some shit. What is this, a fucking resort?”

 

“Relax. It’s just a hotel. I’m gonna get us a room.” Billy slides out of the seat and leaves no room for Steve to argue. He even takes the keys with him, like he doesn’t trust Steve. 

 

\---

 

Billy fucking insists that they eat in the weird, fancy little restaurant at the inn, like he thinks they’re on their fucking honeymoon or something. Which, Billy should know all about those, considering he’s fucking married. It’s hard to remember that. Steve rubs his forehead. He has to remember it.

 

There’s a big fake tree in the middle with a bunch of gold chandeliers branching off of it and all the seats are these huge booths covered in quilted pink leathery material. Basically it looks like the 1950s threw up all over the place. Maybe Steve would think it was cool if he hadn’t spent all those summers growing up eating at his dad’s favorite restaurants in Europe and Dubai and shit. But he did, so he’s having a little trouble mustering up any enthusiasm. 

 

They get seated at one of the huge round booths and then they sit in silence for a few minutes. Billy pulls out his phone, trying to get the best angle to capture the decor, probably. 

 

“So like, are you from around here?” Steve tries, after a few too many minutes of quiet. Sounding like he met Billy on Tinder or something and they’re trying to “get to know each other.” 

 

“What does it look like, _Steve_?” He makes Steve’s actual name sound like an insult.

 

“ _You_ look like Malibu Barbie.”

 

“Malibu’s kind of too rich for my blood. Close enough, I guess? Considering your geography skills. ”

 

Steve keeps it together, doesn’t ask any of the questions he’s dying to ask, until a couple minutes after they order. It felt like a decade.

 

“So like, what’s the deal with your wife? Did you bring her here when you got married?”

 

Billy chokes on his water. Aha. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“You just seem real familiar with this place.” 

 

“Because I’m a Californian. You think I have some kind of _crush_ on you, King Steve? Taking you to some honeymoon spot?”

 

“So where _did_ you take her?” Steve presses. He knows he’s being an asshole, but so is Billy. He wants to even the playing field.

 

Billy shakes his head. “There’s no _her_.”

 

He tries again. “Well, let me see a picture of the famous wife.”

 

“What is this, 20 fucking questions?

 

“That’s not a question. It’s super weird that you never mentioned her.” 

 

“I’m sorry, are we best fucking buds that I have to tell you all about my life?”

 

“Bet she’s your phone’s lockscreen.” Their eyes meet and Billy snatches his phone off the table right before Steve makes a grab for it. “Come on, man.” Steve reaches over and gets a grip on his wrist. Billy somehow twists out of his grasp without knocking anything off the table.

 

“Over my _dead body,_ Harrington. I’m not letting you get your filthy paws on my phone. I have like, boundaries.” 

 

Steve shakes his head, goes for casual when he says, “Never figured you’d be the type to marry young, settle down. Kind of fucking boring, actually.”  

 

“So now I’m _boring_ and _settled?_ I thought I was a nightmare, or whatever it was you said this morning.”

 

“Uh, yeah you are, according to _Rafael Villanova_ . From your _work.”_

 

Billy’s eyes narrow and his body tenses up, like he was just caught in something? Steve has to fucking get out of here. It’s getting too weird. Billy must see it on his face, because he reaches out and takes Steve’s wrist. 

 

“Hey, wait. Hold on just a fucking second, okay?”

 

“I wasn’t even leaving,” Steve lies, “but okay. Sure.” 

 

“What does it even matter to you?” Billy asks. 

 

“It’s a big secret to keep,” says Steve. 

 

“Is that it?”

 

“And I mean, don’t take this the wrong way. But I kind of thought you might be gay.”

 

Billy laughs. “Okay.”

 

“But you’re not?”

 

“Don’t listen to the shit Rafa tells you anymore, okay?” Billy’s drumming his fingers on the table. He’s always fidgeting. 

 

“I’ll try not to.” Steve says.

 

The waiter comes and sets down their food during the silence that comes after that. It’s halibut for Steve and pork chops for Billy. Steve listens to the conversations people are having around them, the metallic scrape of knives against plates, the jazzy music playing over the speakers. 

 

He’s halfway through the fish when Billy starts talking again. Billy doesn’t look up from his plate and talks straight down at his food. At first, Steve thinks it’s just someone at another table talking, so he has to try to hurry and tune back in when he recognizes the voice.

 

“Steve, you’ve never had garbage coworkers before. You don’t get it. This is the longest I’ve been at one job since I moved here, you know? So people started getting too familiar. They kept trying to set me up with girls, and I was running out of excuses for not being interested.” 

 

“So you’re not interested. In girls.” 

 

Billy sighs. “If I let them know that... I won’t have to leave town or anything, like I know it’s 2019 and we’re in California. But I _will_ have to deal with fucking John and Nate and Rafa making stupid fucking jokes all day and every time I bend over. Nate already tells me I’m _pretty_ and like, that’s the most of that I can fucking take from any of them without snapping. I don’t want to go to actual prison because I shoved Nate into the grill or something.” 

 

“What the fuck?” Steve knows he’s not being very sensitive. “I like, I don’t think I know what you’re trying to tell me.”

 

“I just wanted them to fuck off so I told them I was married. It was stupid, like a lot of things I do. But it’s not like they’re gonna see me on Grindr or at the gay club or whatever.” He messes with his hair, pushing it back from his face and then makes eye contact, finally.

 

“That’s a hell of a lie.”

 

“Okay, yeah, obviously it fucking. Got out of hand. And they don’t even believe me. God. Like, they’re checking up on me? With _you_? Shit.”

 

Steve doesn’t see what’s so bad about them talking to him about Billy’s wife, but. Okay. 

 

“The main fucking thing uniting us is shared hatred for the customer. And Steve, man, that’s you.” 

 

Steve’s like, “Yeah, okay. I get that,” even though he has no idea what the fuck Billy’s talking about. He’s perfectly fucking polite as a customer. 

 

“No, you don’t. But that’s okay.” Billy’s leaned back in his seat, looking Steve over. 

 

Steve, for his part, feels wrung out and confused. How is he supposed to know when Billy’s telling the truth? Does it really matter? Was this some kind of emotional coming out for Billy? It doesn’t look like it was.

 

He picks up the check, because the prices are enough to make him wince and he feels bad enough making Billy pay for the hotel. 

\---

 

After dinner, Billy wants to get a drink at the lounge. He’s never been old enough before, he explains, he always looked too young to get served.

 

Steve doesn’t really want to drink anything, for maybe the first time in history, because he doesn’t want to get messy in the cutesy lounge of a hotspot for couples. But Billy apparently eats interpersonal conflict for breakfast and is totally unfazed by their conversation. It’s really goddamn weird.

 

Steve orders a Long Island iced tea because he’s not a quitter and he doesn’t do things halfway.

 

Halfway into his drink, he interrupts Billy in the middle of some long, meandering story about nothing to ask, “So you’re really not married, huh? Then prove it. You think I’ve never seen a romantic drama movie before? Jonathan fucking loves chick flicks, _bro_ ,” he leans heavy on the word. “I know all about guys like you.”

 

Also like, Steve’s dad was that guy in real life. Sometimes he could actually hear him on the phone, telling flavor of the week that he’s separated, not really married, and his wife is _just so cold_. This was in the office in their fucking house. 

 

“Then tell me about myself, Harrington. What do guys like me do?”

 

Steve glares. “You know. You string girls along and use them for like, whatever it is that gets you off. Emotionally.”

 

“You’re not a girl.”

 

“Yeah well, sometimes it feels like you don’t remember that.” 

 

“I’d let you remind me,” Billy leers. 

 

Steve doesn’t have anything to say to that.

 

The swirling, eye-searing floral carpet makes Steve feel dizzy if he looks at it too long. So he mostly looks at Billy, with his long eyelashes and curving mouth. He’s laughing at something, but Steve hasn’t really been listening and can’t tell what. He doesn’t really want to hear what Billy has to say, anyway. 

 

“I’m going to bed,” he says, trying to slip away alone. But Billy closes his tab and goes with him. 

\---

 

“Holy shit,” Steve says when Billy finally gets the key in the lock and swings the door open. “I can’t believe this room. I think I’m gonna be sick.” The walls are covered in a crowded, luridly pink floral patterned wallpaper. And the ceiling is pink, and the _rug_ is pink. 

 

“You’re gonna be fine, Harrington. I’m not losing the deposit on this room over you not being able to hang.”

 

“What did you ask for at the front desk, you goddamn monster?”

 

Billy looks at him slyly. “They called it Floral Fantasy.”

 

Steve groans, crashes onto the bed, the only fucking bed in there, face-first even though the bedspread is probably filthy with strangers’ germs. 

 

“Did you even tell them you needed a room for two?”

 

“I did. And they gave me this.”

 

“This is for couples.”

 

“Yeah. Guess they got the wrong impression,” Billy says. Nonchalant.

 

“Because of _you_! You were the one telling them what impression to have! I was not even in the room.” 

 

Billy sets their bags down next to the bed. This is not okay with Steve. 

 

“Billy, you take the couch.”

 

“What the fuck? I’m the one paying for this garbage. That couch is goddamn tiny.” 

 

“So now it’s garbage? I thought you wanted the damn floral wallpaper and this bright-ass pink. We could have stayed at a normal motel for half this price. And then the walls wouldn’t literally make me puke.”

 

“You haven’t puked yet. Do you want to spend all day in a car with me tomorrow when I’m running on no sleep?” Billy crosses his arms and stands his ground. Like, Steve gets it. He never backs down from a fight. Message received.

 

Steve doesn’t respond. Just lies there and thinks about all the regrets he has that have led him to this point. He’s across the country, in a small town in California, fighting back vomit in a dizzying pink room with his former enemy? Cool. 

 

”Hey, Steve, check out the shower,” Billy calls. He doesn’t mention he’s already half-undressed, clad only in a towel. So Steve takes a step back when he realizes.

 

And then he does look around the shower. The walls and floor and _ceiling_ are all made of rock, something sturdy and shale-like. It’s like they’re in a cave. Billy takes Steve’s hand, moves it to touch the overwhelming slab of wall. 

 

“Are you putting the moves on me, or.” Steve says. He has to say it. He’s still drunk.

 

Billy drops his hand. “Trust me, you’ll know when I am,” Billy says. It’s not exactly a dismissal. But Steve’s too tired to think about it anymore, so he heads back to bed, strips off his shirt and jeans and crawls in wearing his boxers. He forgot to pack real pajamas.

 

He manages to drift off pretty quickly, for being in such an unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar man. Having to deal with Billy for six hours straight will do that to you, he guesses. 

 

Steve is in a field of tall, purple grass, walking toward a clear, bright pond. The sky is gray and he really wants to see what might be in the water, so he’s trying to get over there before the clouds split and the rain ruins whatever might be waiting for him at the bottom of the pond. 

 

He’s taking a step forward when the ground shakes and he sinks down, only-- 

 

“The fuck?” he mumbles blearily. Someone’s warming the bed next to him. He blinks open to see Billy settling in under the covers. “I thought we agreed you’d take the couch.”

 

“No such fuckin’ agreement, bud. Look, I promise to keep my hands to myself,” he says.

 

“Okay,” Steve says, too tired to care and hoping to sink back into another dream where he feels safe and excited by the world around him. “Sure.”

 

\---

 

Steve’s been up for about an hour; it’s really unfair how alcohol makes him wake up super early, no matter what. But he’s still in bed, flicking through Instagram and Twitter and browsing the sale on Asos. Then he’s watching Billy wake up, and it’s a weird kind of intimacy even though nothing happened between them the night before except some arguing.

 

Billy stretches in the morning, his body graceful and unselfconscious. He shakes himself awake like a small mammal. His hair looks like fucking gold against the deep, rosy pink of his pillowcase. 

 

“ _Hey_ , King Steve.” It’s incredible that Billy wakes up and is immediately ready to start shit. Nobody but _Billy_ has called him that in probably three years. 

 

Steve grunts in response. 

 

“You ready to go out and conquer?” Billy’s curled in his direction, has one arm tucked behind his head and the tension of the pose makes both arms look thick and capable. Steve’s only human, of course he fucking notices. His other hand is resting on the sheet between them. He’s shirtless, in a pair of tiny running shorts. It looks almost like an invitation.

 

Steve glares. “Look, I might be a weird slut or whatever but I’m not gonna fuck a married man at this point in my life. Even if you paid for the room.” He rolls onto his side, turned away from Billy. He’s sticking with that as his reason, even though Billy could be telling the truth. 

 

“Yeah, okay, all that’s fine. But we still have to hit the road before noon. So. Get up.”

 

Steve showers in the crazy, absurd, creepy bathroom. He dresses himself up a little more butch than he normally would. Chooses his baggiest jeans and a plain shirt under his windbreaker so people will think he knows what he’s talking about at the car convention. Even though he honestly _doesn’t_ know what he’s talking about.

\---

 

Steve loves vintage cars. It’s one of the only things he and his dad could bond over. He didn’t ask for a lexus or anything, when he turned sixteen. Instead, his dad helped him track down a mint-condition oxblood BMW with that signature boxy 80s look he loved. 

 

Billy, though, knows cars from the inside out. 

 

Steve hasn’t seen it, but he can picture him with motor oil on his hands, hair tied back in a bun for safety reasons, dressed in an undershirt that’s seen better days. Here, he’s in a clean white t-shirt and blue jeans. Both are fitted impossibly well to his body. Steve kind of wants to know if he has a tailor or something, because that shit should just not be possible. It’s the kind of bougie question that would make Billy snap at him.

 

Steve looks at cars his dad could buy, looks at cars he has no room for or reason to own. He falls in lust dozens of times. He even forgets to care about Billy or what he might be doing. Loses himself in fender extenders and rim diameters and shining hubcaps instead. He spends an hour looking at paint swatches at various booths: pearl finish, matte, gloss. He loves to see a custom paint job screaming at him from across the parking lot, even if it’s objectively tacky.

 

There’s a craft beer tent outside and he half-expects to see Billy posted up there. But he’s not. It’s kind of relieving.

 

Steve runs into some friends of his dad’s, people who help him pick up cars and sell them and fix them up. He gets out of the conversation as fast as possible, which turns out to be half an hour.

 

He goes back to the beer tent and resolves to try everything on offer at least once. Billy’s supposed to drive, anyway. Steve doesn’t have to worry about it. He’s done looking around inside. It’s almost seven and the sun is setting.

 

Steve’s on his sixth beer when he finally spots Billy. He sees the ruddy tinge to his skin and immediately sinks into a pissy mood. Shakes his head in disbelief, rolls his eyes. When Billy comes over, grinning and holding a beer that’s practically all head, he throws up his hands. Billy’s grin slides off his face, but it’s a gradual thing. He looks kind of funny, caught off guard. 

 

Steve goes, “Christ, Billy. You’re _drinking?_ I’m tired,” like he’s somebody’s whiny girlfriend. 

 

Billy says, “This was for you, not me. So fucking calm down.” Steve grabs it out of his hands. “...but yeah, we should wait, like, an hour before we leave. I ran into some guys who own an auto shop down in Oxnard and they like, they fucking insisted we have a beer together, so. I’ve had a few.”

 

Steve sulks. He finds a chair to slump into and ignores Billy. He plays the part, being a bitch ‘cause he’s drunk.

 

Billy sits next to him and lights up. When he does, Steve can kind of see why he was so in love with his home state and why it was all he ever talked about in Indiana. He looks really fucking good here. He’s thriving, or something. 

 

Steve suddenly can’t keep his mouth shut. “God. You’re too fucking hot. I wish we could, you know. But you had to be _married_. What’s the fucking deal with that? It just doesn’t make sense.”

 

Billy blows smoke out, silent for once. 

Then he says, “You’re really gonna believe them over me? I _told you_ my side of the story last night. If you remember.”

 

“God,” Steve says again. He hopes at least somebody else is hearing this. “Who do you think I am? Do you pull this shit a lot? Your _wife_ must really be stupid.” 

 

“There’s no fucking wife,” Billy says flatly. “Look, I would rather lie to the people at work than you. You know, work actually isn’t my entire life.” He looks at Steve then, shifting in his seat. 

 

Steve ignores that. “And also, I just got out of a relationship with two other people. Why do you think I would be eager to take that kind of shit for another ride. I just moved across the country, you dumb mother fucker.”  

 

Billy sighs. “I can’t get over that. Jesus, Wheeler _and_ Byers? You couldn’t pay me enough.”

 

Eventually, they get to the hotel. The drive over and their arrival are both awkwardly silent. Then they fall asleep in separate queen beds. 

 

When they sit down in the crowded lobby for a complimentary breakfast, Billy speaks up. “I’ll show you. Come see my fuckin’ bachelor pad. You’ll see.”  

 

“And what, we’ll netflix and chill while we’re at it? Once I see you don’t have some woman living there? After you hide all the girl stuff? I don’t know, man.”

 

Billy says, “If you ever lived with a woman who wasn’t freakishly neat,” _and never home_ , Steve fills in for him, “you would see that there’s literally no way to do that. That shit’s like glitter, it gets everywhere. Okay?”

 

On the drive back, Billy stops for fruit and ostrich jerky and so Steve can look around at the rest stops, even though he mumbles they have shitty views and they’re filled with mosquitos and dog shit. Billy’s obviously trying to be decent, even if his constant bitching kind of ruins the effect. 

 

The central Californian fruit stands are full of ripe, heavy fruit. Steve bites into a plum and the sour skin gives way to sweet, juicy red flesh that shoots juice all over the car and all over Steve. Billy’s mostly spared and anyway, he’s wearing this black, vintage-looking Harley Davidson shirt that's totally unaffected by the red stains. 

 

“Fuck,” he says. “This shirt is _white_.”

 

“You mean, it was white,” says Billy helpfully. He’s kind of staring.

 

“Eyes on the road,” Steve says when the car swerves a little. Billy snaps to attention, faces forward immediately. Caught in the act and guilty enough about it that he actually listens instead of leaning into whatever annoyed Steve in the first place.

 

\---

 

Billy drops Steve and his car off at the apartment.

 

“Not to sound overly invested,” Steve says. “But how are you gonna get home? Do you need--” 

 

Billy cuts him off to say, “I parked down the street from the Shack. I can walk from here, pretty boy.” He lugs his duffel bag out of the trunk and tosses Steve the keys. They fall on the sidewalk. 

 

“God, really? You’re gonna have another dozen fucking tickets to add to your collection,” he says. Billy salutes him and disappears around the corner in the hazy evening light. 

 

There are a bunch of boxes waiting for Steve at the building manager’s office. It’s all his shit from back home, finally. Back east, he guesses he could call it, even though it’s as midwestern as you can get. 

 

He was supposed to call Billy for help with these, but. Things are fucking weird between them. And Steve doesn’t know who to believe. He’s not used to having to trust his own judgment. 

 

He lugs the boxes into the elevator and starts to unpack. 

 

The Ikea coffee table comes together well, but by the time he’s done with it he has no energy for anything else so he takes a box of clothes into his bedroom, leaves everything else stacked by the door. It’s grim, he realizes. Everything looks just as grim and limp and cold as it did at home. He vows to open his blinds the next day, let the sun cleanse everything of his cold, rotting hometown. 

 

The next morning, Steve wakes up at 9, a little earlier than usual. He goes down to sit in the backyard, even strips his shirt off in hopes of achieving some pleasant browning. The place is completely transformed. The palm tree is still there, a menace with all the rats nesting in its branches and the falling fronds and its potential to block the sunlight. He uses the tree in a lot of his Instagram posts, as proof he’s found his own slice of heaven here, but it’s actually a pain in the ass in every way imaginable. 

 

\---

 

Steve only makes it a week before he needs some fucking carnitas in his mouth and so he heads over to the Shack. He honestly still doesn’t know Billy’s schedule, because it’s so erratic. He’ll just have to take the chance. 

 

It’s someone he doesn’t recognize who takes his order. That’s increasingly rare, Steve thinks. He’s getting to know all of them; then he feels kind of disgusted and self-conscious and gets to thinking about aging and metabolisms and all kinds of unpleasant shit. He probably shouldn’t keep eating like this.

 

“Hey, are you Steve?” the girl (young woman, Nancy would correct him) says, after she takes his order.

 

“Who’s asking?” he says grimly. He already knows.

 

“Someone asked me to give you this,” she says, evading the question. It’s in a crumpled paper bag.

 

Steve opens it to see two foil packages and a greasy slip of paper.

 

“Hey, uh, how old is this bag?” Because. Steve hasn’t been here in a _week._ He doesn’t put it past Billy to give him food poisoning.

 

“Chill,” she says. “He made them at the beginning of the shift.” 

 

“Hm.” That doesn’t answer any of his questions. 

 

“Read the paper, okay?” she says. 

 

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Laura,” he says. It’s on her nametag. Is that creepy? Steve can’t decide. She really must be new. Nobody else really wears a nametag.  

 

He pays for his food, stuffs a tip in the jar. 

 

While he’s waiting, he reads the slip of paper. He’s never seen Billy’s handwriting before, because it’s 2019 and paper is basically irrelevant. But it’s a messy scrawl that suits him, somehow. 

 

It’s an address and a time of day. No date, Steve notices. 

 

“Is this like, a standing invitation? Did he say anything about that?” Steve asks Laura. 

 

Laura shrugs. “Sorry, I don’t know. Any salsa with that?” 

 

Steve goes with green. 

 

\---

 

Steve scarfs down his burrito sitting at the hot plastic table. He’s eager and aso full of dread. He rushes home afterwards so he can pace and deliberate in private. He switches out his polo shirt for a gray t-shirt, then a blue one. By the time he’s sure he’s going to drive over to what must be Billy’s apartment, he’s settled on a dark green t-shirt and a denim jacket. He brushes his teeth but stops short of spraying on cologne. He doesn’t want to totally show his hand, here.

 

Even though he inhaled that big-ass burrito earlier he feels almost hungry, which is wrong. Stress must burn calories. 

 

He pulls up to the apartment building, a hulking, beige 50s-style building with two floors. He looks around, goes to the stairs so he can find Billy’s place. Number 208. The door is sloppily painted, brush strokes thickly visible in the white paint.

 

Billy opens the door almost immediately. He’s wearing joggers and a tank with arm holes cut deep enough to show off his obliques. His hair is curling loose over his shoulders and it makes Steve want to die.

 

“So. You’re here for the tour?” he asks. 

 

“I guess so,” says Steve. Billy swings the door open wide and lets Steve step in before shutting it behind him. 

 

He really does take Steve on a tour. The place is sparsely decorated, kind of like Steve’s own room. There are stacks of books, though, all kinds of shit Jonathan was always trying to get Steve to read like A Clockwork Orange and Fight Club and The Outsiders. No sign of a gaming system, which surprises Steve. 

 

“C’mon, get in there,” Billy says while he watches Steve gingerly poke around the stuff in the living room. “Check under the couch or wherever. Do what you came here to do.”  

 

Steve doesn’t even really know what he would be looking for. It’s a feeling, more than anything, that tells you if someone lives alone. For a couple months after he moved out of his mom’s place, Jonathan stayed in a place where he wasn’t on the lease. When the landlord came through to inspect, he had to turn the futon back into couch form and haul boxes of his stuff out to his car so the area would look like a living room and not a bedroom. The landlord still picked up on shit, and Jonathan had to pay this huge, inconvenient fine.  

 

The bathroom is unwashed enough to erode more of his doubts. There’s only one toothbrush, one razor, one shampoo, and it’s a fruity one that claims to create “lush, coily curls.” There’s a whole row of colognes on a shelf in the medicine cabinet. 

 

Mostly, it just looks like a young man lives there. The kitchen is messy, bordering on gross. In the bedroom, there are heaps of clothes and shoes flung under the bed. Steve’s never seen neater sheets.The whole apartment smells like aerosol hair products and the overwhelming scent of plug-in air fresheners, which is kind of weird. 

 

“I admire the dedication to air fresheners, man,” he says. “But like, why?”

 

“I hate coming home smelling like a grease trap,” he says. Billy never really gives a straight answer, so it surprises Steve. Suddenly, all he has to do is ask. 

 

He lifts a tapestry Billy has tacked to the wall, like there’s going to be someone hiding behind it. When he looks, he sees a crater in the wall about the size of a fist. 

 

“The fuck?” Steve asks. Billy shrugs. 

 

“People don’t really change, do they?” Billy says. 

 

“I think they might,” says Steve. 

 

“That’s naive of you,” Billy says. But he’s crowding in on Steve. Steve steps back, and then he’s pressed against the wall dented by Billy’s knuckles. He swallows, and it feels absurdly loud.

 

“Okay, looks good,” Steve says loudly, like he’s done inspecting the place. Like he has any official reason for being there. Like an idiot who wants to assassinate the mood. “I guess you were telling the truth. Nice.” 

 

“We’re not done here, though,” Billy says. Before Steve can ask, open his big clumsy mouth again, Billy touches his thumb to Steve’s mouth. He doesn’t say anything, but he pauses long enough for Steve to nod. He drags his hand down along his jaw, to Steve’s collarbone. He takes a breath, shut his eyes and kisses Steve full on the lips. The warm press of his mouth gives way to tongue, warm and wet and going straight to Steve’s dick. When they pull apart, Steve feels weak. 

 

“Okay,” he says dumbly. Billy leans in, kisses him again. He pulls back too soon. 

 

“Wait,” Steve says. But Billy slides his hand lower to trace over the outline of Steve’s dick. “Yeah, okay.” He can’t pull himself together enough to say anything longer than one syllable. 

 

Before Steve can really process what’s happening, Billy’s sinking to his knees. It’s not something he imagined Billy would be so into, but the heat in his eyes and the practiced way he goes down make him think this is absolutely Billy’s thing. 

 

“Christ, Billy,” Steve grits out. Billy keeps eye contact as he unzips Steve’s fly, pulls his hard dick through his boxers.

 

Once he gets Steve’s dick out he licks down the side, pulling away to stare at his expression. Steve bets it’s unflattering, he thinks that for one second before the part of his brain responsible for self-critical though blanks out and all he can do is chase the friction and heat of Billy’s tongue. “God, please. Put your mouth on me.” 

 

Billy’s mouth is so hot, his lips dragging over the stiff length of Steve’s dick, that he has to push his hips forward, get deeper into it. Billy makes a little moaning sound at that. It sound like encouragement, not a complaint, and it makes him twitch. 

 

“Fuck, yeah,” Steve breathes. “I’m close. Just a little deeper, God,” and when Billy hurries to oblige and opens his throat around him, Steve’s coming. Billy pulls back, trails a tongue over the head and Steve has to fucking shove him off. Billy ends up with a string of cum over his lips and chin. His smile looks deranged, sweaty and pink and cum-drenched.

 

He rises to his feet, wipes his face with the back of his hand. His mouth looks thoroughly fucked, lips swollen and red and-- Steve touches two fingertips to them-- hot to the touch. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, and Steve follows. He’s shucking his pants and shirt, leaning back against the cushions. His dick is hard and obvious in his boxers. Steve eyes the dark spot of precum and swallows. 

 

“You can’t fuck me tonight,” Steve warns.

 

“Okay,” Billy says. “But I really need to get off.” He crawls off the bed, searches in his top drawer until he pulls out a bottle of lube. 

 

“How do you want me?” Steve asks. He leans back too, sprawls out a little over the bed.

 

“I love that question,” Billy says. “I mean, let me just think about it. Choose a fantasy to act out with King Steve.”

 

“Hurry up, man,” Steve says. “Before I fall asleep here.” 

 

Billy’s back on the bed immediately, straddling Steve’s hips, inching forward up his body. 

 

“I wanna come on your face,” he says. 

 

Steve’s all for that, because it doesn’t require him to move or _do_ anything. 

 

“Yeah, Billy,” he says. “We can do that.” 

 

So Billy’s kneeling over Steve’s face, bracing himself with one hand on his headboard. He uses the other to jack himself off, slow and rhythmic. It’s loudly slick, from the lube. Billy’s face goes soft and unfocused. For once all his energy is focused on something other than being obnoxious, and it’s a good look on him. Steve’s staring at the ring on his hand and how it looks blurring over his shiny dick. When Billy winces and shuts his eyes, fucks into his own hand, Steve lets his mouth fall open and sticks his tongue out a little. Billy moans quietly at that, and he pushes forward so the head rests against Steve’s lips, thick and heavy. He tastes like salt. Steve can’t help but lap a little at him, getting more of the taste.

 

“Fuck, fuck, _Steve,_ ” Billy says, and his voice is even lower and rougher than usual. Steve remembers to close his eyes, and then Billy’s coming over the entire lower half of his face. His tongue darts out to clean the tacky mess off his lips. Billy watches intently, totally quiet. When  Steve’s done, he leans in to kiss him sloppily, sucking at his tongue. 

 

\---

 

The next morning, Steve wakes up and is shocked to see Billy still asleep next to him. He kind of thought he might sneak out in the middle of the night. Then he wakes up a little more and looks around the room, sees a poster for Sunn O))) and piles of clothes on the ground, and oh, right. He’s the one who slept over. 

 

Should he have left? There’s still time to get out before Billy wakes up. Steve’s _stealthy_. He could totally do it. 

 

He shifts in bed, trying to slide out from under the (totally unnecessary in this fucking heat) covers without waking Billy up. There’s no way for him to know how heavily Billy sleeps so he tries really hard not to make a sound. Just as he gets his feet on the floor, searching for a way to stand up without making the bed creak, a hand shoots out to dig into the sensitive skin on his inner thigh. Steve hisses at the touch.

 

“Are you trying to ditch me, without even saying anything? That’s pretty low, Harrington.” 

 

“Hey, of course not. I wanted. Water. Or something.” 

 

“Come back to bed, _baby_ ,” Billy says. It would feel mocking if the sleazy, low voice he uses wasn’t so hot. 

 

And it works. Steve’s back in the bed and Billy gets an arm around his waist fucking immediately. His whole bad-boy-throwback thing reels Steve in every time. 

 

“Did you have plans for today?” Steve asks, like a complete lame bitch, _he knows_.

 

“Other than this, no,” Billy admits. 

 

“Okay, good.” He twists around to face Billy. “‘Cause, if you have the time, I was thinking we should fuck.” 

 

Billy’s mouth parts a tiny bit. 

 

“I have time for you, Steve. Don’t worry about that.” He gets his hands in Steve’s hair and pushes it back. Then, because that was too clearly affectionate: “Your hair’s a rat’s nest.” 

 

“This is why I always leave in the morning,” Steve says. Billy's still touching his hair.

 

Billy laughs. “There’s no rush. Listen, you can use my hairspray whenever you want.” 

 

Steve thinks he can live with that. He could get used to spending the night wrapped up in someone else. 

 

So he nods at Billy, says, "Okay." And he settles in, ready bask in Billy's attention for as long as he's able. The bed isn't going anywhere, and there's no one to come and make them be responsible, so Steve figures it could be kind of a while. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just really wanted to see these two at the madonna inn because i think billy loves all things tacky and over the top and steve Doesn't. [here is the room they stayed in. floral fantasy is real...](https://book.b4checkin.com/chameleon/imagecache/163/RoomImages/9019.jpg)  
> this is the first multichapter fanfiction i've ever FINISHED lmao. enormous respect to people who churn these out all the time...  
> i made a tumblr at [asphaltworld.tumblr.com](https://asphaltworld.tumblr.com) and haven't posted much but i feel like having a fic tumblr would maybe be fun and maybe get me writing more? so. you can find me there.  
> anyway, thank you so much to anyone who has commented over the course of this! it's Very Appreciated and motivated me to get the damn thing done. <3


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